Tear Ducts and Rust
by InkyCoffee
Summary: "But there was time enough yet before she needed to get moving, and for once she allowed herself the luxury, if she could call it that when the sofa was so damn uncomfortable, of lying awake a few minutes before she faced the day." Set some time shortly after 8x05 during the separation arc. For the #CastlePornado. Oneshot. Complete.


_Oh tear ducts and rust_  
 _I'll fix it for us_  
 _We're collecting dust, but our love's enough_

- _Just Give Me A Reason, P!nk ft. Nate Ruess_

* * *

She woke trembling, the sofa unforgiving, the leather sticking to her skin making it awkward to roll over.

She had dreamed of him again.

Just like the previous night, and the night before that, and every night since the whole nightmare started.

She dreamed she was in his arms, curled up to his chest, his skin like a furnace beneath her cheek as she rested against the soothing rhythm of his heart. She dreamed of his smell, of the scent of the sheets, and of him – that woodsy fragrance with just a hint of spicy aftershave still clinging to his skin, of sex and home. She dreamed of straying, seeking hands and lips, of waking to find her body humming as he ducked under the covers, his mouth working her up and waking her up, nipping and tasting, until at last her eyes popped open to find his head between her legs, his eyebrows waggling in delight even as his tongue and lips finally reached her center, causing her hips to buck and her hands to scramble for purchase-

Instead, she had woken to the first streaks of dawn outside her office window, scant hours of sleep snatched from working the case with Vikram well into the night, as she had been doing every night since it began.

Her husband's face haunted her, even as she stretched her aching muscles, opening her eyes to look across the room to the cabinet she was using as a makeshift closet. The morning shift would arrive in about an hour to find their new captain already hard at work, but first she needed to slip past the skeleton night crew and down to the locker room to put on her mask for the day. It was hard enough convincing the room full of detectives she wasn't sleeping at the precinct – even if that was the truth – but a shower, a change of clothes, and a fresh face of makeup worked wonders for easing their minds. She even had Ryan and Espo at least a little fooled, although part of that had to do with keeping their caseload just busy enough to stop them from asking questions.

But there was time enough yet before she needed to get moving, and for once she allowed herself the luxury, if she could call it that when the sofa was so damn uncomfortable, of lying awake a few minutes before she faced the day.

Pulling the light throw rug over herself more firmly, her mind drifted back to her dream, and she imagined it wasn't cheap vinyl clinging to her skin, but instead the smooth glide of the ridiculously high thread count sheets Castle had insisted on when they went shopping for new bed linens last year. She imagined that the distant rustle from the far end of the bullpen was her husband's quiet snores and snuffles beside her. She imagined the back of the couch against which she was uncomfortably pressed was the solid, comforting wall of her husband's back.

A wave of longing threatened to drown her then, as memories of his touch, his smell, assaulted her, and she reached into the bag serving as her bedside table to pull out his shirt. She curled into it, arranging the garment so her nose was pressed into the collar.

She missed him.

Choking back tears, she allowed her hands to glide down her body, pretending it was he who was touching her, holding her. The memory of his delight in her, of his love, had her shifting against the clinging fabric of the sofa. She thought of his hands, of their strength and gentleness, of his broad fingers and the way they would touch and explore, how he delighted to bring her to ecstasy.

Giving up all pretence, she allowed her legs to fall open as her own fingers slid down to the waistband of her panties. She paused there for a moment, taking time to tease herself as she knew he would with that devilish smirk of his. Then her hand slid beneath the fabric, her fingers slicked through her already weeping folds, and her hips arched upwards, seeking friction. In her mind's eye she could see him braced on one arm above her, cataloging her every reaction like a scientist, teasing her until she cried out.

She had to be careful not to make a sound here, though. She tugged her bottom lip between her teeth, biting back a moan.

"You have to be quiet, Kate," the phantom of her husband reminded her in her imagination, that wicked twinkle in his eyes.

She nearly cried out as she thought about the rasp of his voice, the way she used to feel the vibrations of the rich timbre move through her.

Imagining two of her fingers were one of his, she slid them inside, working herself up. She thought of his hands, so sure and strong, of his fingers, so thick and nimble, so practiced in bringing her pleasure, sliding in and out of her, working her higher. She thought of the way his biceps would ripple and strain from the movement, the way his brow would furrow in concentration. He always seemed to know when to start moving faster, when to add another finger to stretch her wider, and her heart ached even as her body arched to seek out more.

Her breathing became shallow and her eyes screwed shut, the coil of need within her growing tighter with every movement, threatening to burst. She brought the heel of her hand against her clit, rubbing in compact circles.

"Let go, Kate," the memory of his voice, gravelled with arousal, rang in her head, and next thing she knew she was flying, her body clenching around fingers that she wished were her husband's, and she gasped out a sob as she remembered that even then, he wasn't here with her.

She lay panting, listening for any sound of the night shift having heard her, but there was no sound of concern or approach of footsteps. Retracting her hand slowly, she thought with a pang that, had it really been Castle beside her, he would have licked off her fingers and then taken her mouth, allowing her to taste herself on his tongue, before rolling on top of her and entering her, bringing them both to ecstasy once or twice more before her alarm signalled the beginning of the day.

Instead she rose on trembling legs, folded the rug across the back of the sofa, gathered her toiletries and a change of clothes, and headed for the locker room. Time to put aside her aching heart as the grieving wife and don her armor to become the Captain of the precinct once more.


End file.
